An Ode to Icing and Beans
by Driffta
Summary: John boots Sherlock out to get beans. When Sherlock comes back he finds a strange sight in the kitchen; John baking. VERY SLASHY. RATED M FOR A REASON. JohnLock 5Evahhhh!


Warnings: This is just a piece of fluff and could be anywhere in the time line of Sherlock BBC. BE WARNED, IT'S RATED M FOR A REASON. That reason is good old slashy shagging.

Disclaimers: Neither I nor my friend own Sherlock, neither I nor my friend own Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, though we would VERY much like to…If we DID own rights to the show there would be a lot more, uh, skin.

Summary: This started out as an RP between my friend Calabash (.net/u/3676389/) and I, that somehow grew into a nice bit'o'slash. She is writing all of John's parts and I've got Sherlock's.

John sends Sherlock out for beans, hoping to keep him away from the house long enough to get the surprise ready. It's a very special day for Sherlock, though he himself doesn't realize it. When Sherlock arrives back at the flat he sees a strange sight before his eyes; John Watson covered in icing speckles.

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><p>Sherlock sprawled out lazily on the sofa, quietly reading the morning paper. He could hear John in the kitchen puttering about, he lazily wondered what John was up to, but figured that he would find out soon enough. The afternoon sun shown in through the curtains in the windows and Sherlock sighed contentedly. For once he was not bored, for once he was not eager for a new case, for once he was happy to just lie on the sofa and read his papers.<p>

Several yards away, John stood hunched over the kitchen sink, his brow furrowed. He glanced over his shoulder at the lissom figure stretched out on the sofa, and he quirked his mouth in frustration. He needed to get Sherlock out of here. He'd been trying all day. This morning, he'd laid hints about wanting eggs. Sherlock had hollered at Mrs Hudson to bring a few up. After lunch, he'd lied, and said Lestrade was summoning him to the Yard. Sherlock ignored him, and played his violin. Now... he cleared his throat, and gave it one more go.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

Sherlock heard and propped himself up on an elbow, looking at John curiously. He wondered what daft reason John had for him to get out of the house now.

'Yes?' He raised an eyebrow as he took in John standing in the kitchen doorway, his arms folded, leaning against to door frame. What did he want?

John didn't meet his eyes. He knew better than that. Sherlock could read him all too well. Instead, he acted casual, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Hey, we're running low on beans. Wanted some for dinner. I'd go, but I've got um.. some blogging to do, and you haven't left the flat in days. Would you mind...?"

Sherlock frowned. Beans? Leave the flat? 'You're set on beans? Isn't there anything else you could use instead?' he asked a little petulantly, his lower lip protruding slightly. This would mean he would have to change out of his dressing gown and into clothes. That was NOT at all something he found appealing.

"Yes, beans, Sherlock." John faked impatience. He was well practiced; the deception was rather impeccable if he did say so himself. "I've cleaned the flat, done your wash, made tea, cooked your breakfast, do you think you can manage to put on trousers and pop down the shop for beans?" With any luck, he would become distracted along the way and he'd buy himself an hour. He leaned forward, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in displeasure but propelled himself off the sofa anyway. 'If you insist that we absolutely NEED beans.' he sighed and made his way down the hall to his room, grousing all the way. Ten minutes later he reappeared dressed in his usual black trousers and a navy blue silk shirt. 'I'll be back shortly.' he called, snatching up his coat and sliding painstakingly into it before carefully wrapping the scarf around his long neck. Only when he was satisfied did he stop fidgeting with it and crossed the room to the front door. With a wave at John he left, closing the door a little louder than necessary behind him.

John waited for a full 97 seconds before darting over to the window, watching as Sherlock stalked down the street in the warm afternoon sun. His body cast a long shadow across the pavement. John stared after him longingly for a few moments, then he scampered to the kitchen once more, a devious smile plastered on his face. His tanned hands reached into the cupboards, snatching ingredients.

Today was Sherlock Holmes' birthday. And John was going to make him a cake.

* * *

><p>Sherlock continued to fume lightly as he strode across the pavement. 'Taxi!' he called at a car passing by. Soon he was settled in the car and giving the driver directions. He wanted tedious outing to be as brief as possible.<p>

The taxi dropped him off at a small little corner market near the flat. Sherlock and John often frequented this establishment; it was fairly inexpensive and easily accessible. He walked in and looked around him before heading straight to where he knew the beans would be kept. The beans were not there. He frowned. Why were the beans gone? What had they done, moved them? Why would they move beans from a perfectly good spot to a different one? Ridiculous!

'Excuse me,' he called at a woman wearing a white shirt and black trousers with a black apron tied across her waist. She turned around and smiled welcomingly. Sherlock did not reciprocate. 'Where are the beans?' he asked, his voice carrying a hint of menace.

The girl looked a little startled by the dour expression and bit her lip. 'They, uh, are in...down...' she screwed up her face, trying to remember exactly where the beans had been moved to. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. He could tell by the way she held herself that this was either her first or second day here, the bounce in her step meant that she had only been here for a few hours. She was young; this must be her first job.

Should he go easy on her? He heard John's voice in the back of his head telling him to be nice...naaah, it was her fault she hadn't memorized everything yet. 'Do you remember or are we in need of finding someone with more experience and brain power than you?' he snapped, his eyes flashing.

The girl bit her lip again, nervous habit or did she have some sort of oral hygiene problem? Probably the first option. 'No,' she said uncertainly, 'I think I know where they are...' she gulped.

'Oh, I see. Good for us then, you think you know where they are. Brilliant! I must have misjudged you, how about we sit down for a nice cuppa while you tell me all about yourself.' he drawled, folding his arms.

The girl looked at him surprised. 'Really?' She asked, clearly confused.

_Not the brightest girl in the world, _Sherlock mused.'Ummm, no.'

The girl's face fell.

'Now, now, Mr Sherlock, you shouldn't be teasing miss Katy like that, she'll think you're serious!' boomed a loud voice with a slightly cockney accent. Sherlock turned around to see the owner of the market, Glenn Pickett, standing behind him, a little taller than Sherlock, Glenn was an easy going fellow with a big gut and an even bigger voice.

'I _was_ serious.' Sherlock stated flatly.

Glenn gave Katy a knowing wink. 'Sure, sure. Now why don't you run along, Katy. There's a mess down isle four. I'll take care of Mr Sherlock.'

Katy nodded, glad to have an excuse to escape.

'Now, Sherlock. Don't have John along with you I see, a rare sight indeed. What can I get you today?'

Sherlock glared. 'Beans.'

* * *

><p>Damn. This was supposed to be easy. John stood in the middle of the kitchen, scowling at the open recipe book he'd nicked from Mrs Hudson the day before. He glanced about. The floor was a mess. There was flour on the ground, on the table, on his jumper. The batter in the large bowl was a quivering mess, and he was still picking the eggshell shards out. John sighed. How difficult was it to make a cake? He should have gotten a box. But he wanted to do something nice for his lover. Now, he was beginning to regret it. It wasn't as if Sherlock cared about such trivial things as birthdays. He could have probably handed him a new skull and have done with it. But John, despite his stalwart exterior, was a bit of a romantic, and he had grand visions of presenting Sherlock with a beautiful cake, perhaps even with a candle. Those thick lips puckered up... blowing out a candle... John shook himself and thrust the cake in the oven. He needed to concentrate on the cake. Not on Sherlock's delicious mouth. Now. What did the book say about icing?<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock had successfully found the beans when he realized that he had missed something, a vital clue. He slapped his forehead; a look of chagrin crossed his face. He had forgotten to ask John what KIND of beans. He saw any number of varieties in front of him; navy beans, lima beans, black beans, white beans, brown beans, kidney beans, tinned beans, dried beans. In desperation he patted his pockets, searching for his mobile. Not there. He had left it at the flat, fuck. He knew exactly where it was, too. Sitting demurely on the table next to the paper he had been reading. Hell. This was getting ridiculous! How could HE, Sherlock Holmes have forgotten something SO frustratingly simple? The idea was ludicrous! Pathetic! He glowered at the beans for a few moments while the cogs in his brain clicked on, whirring around. 'Right.' he said calmly. 'I'll just get these beans,' he picked out a large tin of black beans, 'these beans,' a bag of dried kidney beans, 'and these,' a tin of pinto beans, 'and these,' a box of garbanzo beans. 'And if none of these are to his liking then he can come back down here and pick them out himself.' Sherlock sniffed indignantly before making his way to the checkout lane, his basket of beans in tow.<p>

* * *

><p>John was in over his head. Quite literally. He coughed, powdered sugar spewing from his throat as he whirled around, snatching the cake from the oven, tossing it on the stove, hissing as he burnt his fingertips. He sucked on them, cursing, and turned back to the icing in the bowl. It wasn't cooperating, and Sherlock would be back any moment! He snatched the spoon once more, and attacked the bowl, stirring frantically. It tossed to and fro, splattering his face and neck, landing in his hair, his jumper, his jeans. He didn't care. He wanted to get this done before Sherlock arrived. If he just had a little more time. He wondered vaguely if he should have been watching more cooking programs with Sherlock during their long days of lethargy instead of staring at his back, noting the curl of his dark hair against white skin, the high cheekbones, the slope of his shoulders.<p>

John groaned. It was absurdly difficult to pay attention to anything when Sherlock was in the same room. He glanced at the cake, then back at the lumpy icing. He could perform surgery on the battlefield, but he couldn't make a damned cake icing! He was concentrating so hard he didn't even hear the whisper of the door downstairs.

The moment Sherlock walked in the building he knew something was off. There was a different smell to the place, like someone was cooking - no, baking. That couldn't be Mrs Hudson, she never baked during this time of day...John. Sherlock carefully padded up the stairs, not wanting to make a single sound, curious to find out the mystery of the baking on Baker Street.

Slowly, very slowly, he opened the door to their flat, the smell grew even stronger. A sweet smell, like some sort of pastry. He set the bag down very carefully on the floor before silently sauntering to the kitchen. Before his eyes he saw the most odd, entrancing spectacle he had ever seen. John was standing with his back to the door, bent over a bowl, whisking it with a great fury, all the while muttering extremities under his breath. Sherlock looked around at the disaster zone, flour was everywhere, bits of batter were on the floor and the table, John himself was covered with splatters of icing, holding his spatula like a weapon. Sherlock's lips twitched.

Moving quietly he snuck up behind John and blew into John's ear causing him to yelp and whirl around. As he did so, his foot caught on thin air and he lost his balance, falling to the floor. Sherlock smirked and in an instant was on top of him, leaning on his arms and staring into John's eyes. 'My, my, my...what do we have here?' Sherlock smiled and wiped a particularly large glob of icing from John's cheek before bringing it to his lips and licking it off. 'Not bad,' he said, 'but I know something that will taste oh, so much better.'

John swallowed hard and squeaked "tea and cake?" but he knew better, and began to protest and squirm, still waving his spatula. Some of the icing flicked off into Sherlock's dark curls, and now that intrigued him as well, so he stopped and stared at it.

Sherlock shook his head, his smile growing more and more feline as the moments passed. He leaned down until their noses were nearly touching, he could feel John's breath on his face; sweet smelling from the frosting. 'Use your imagination, John.' He trailed a finger down John's jumper, noticing that it is his favourite one. Sherlock smiled, John had put it on for him.

John started breathing heavier at Sherlock's proximity, and he reached up to run his fingers through the curls, ostensibly to remove the icing, but really just because he wanted to touch them. He couldn't take stop staring at the silver eyes mere inches away. "I don't have to," he says, but his imagination is running wild anyway.

Sherlock chuckled a deep throaty chuckle at John's flippant remark. He loved it when John had that attitude. He adjusted himself just a little, making it easier for the other man to continue touching his hair. Sherlock had never realized how unbelievably sultry having one's hair stroked could feel. 'I think you already are,' he breathed, then he lowered his head until their lips were touching.

John gasped just a little as Sherlock's lips brushed his, and he dropped the spatula in favor of grabbing that long neck and pulling him further in. Those lips were thick and as soft as two rose petals. It was a wonder to him how a man that tossed his papers and belongings all over the flat could have such meticulous grooming habits. But then again, he was glad of them in these moments, when Sherlock tasted of mint toothpaste and lip balm.

Sherlock flicked his tongue against John's, relishing the sweet salty flavour. John was impatient, he wanted more, Sherlock could tell. With a slight moan he ground his ever growing erection against John's own denim clad bulge. The friction drove Sherlock wild and he deepened the kiss, searching every bit of flesh inside the wet, hot cavern. Something about thoroughly debauching John right here on the kitchen floor made Sherlock's mind go into overdrive.

John's mind was swiftly going blank. His body was taking over, and he knew that wasn't supposed to happen, not here, not like this. He tried to grunt a protest, tried to urge Sherlock up so they could move it to the bedroom... well, fuck it, to the sofa at least, but Sherlock's erection digging into his own sent sparks of desire racing through him, and he found himself opening up instead, his mouth for Sherlock's tongue, his legs for Sherlock's body.

Sherlock gasped as John spread his legs apart and thrust into the taller man. This was too much, too much. Sherlock fumbled with the button of John's jeans, flicking it out and unzipping the fly. He could feel John's muscular body writhe underneath him, it sent tingles up and down his spine. Quickly he slid a hand into the jeans, cupping John's erection, stroking it through the cotton blend.

John strained, arching up off the floor as those wonderfully nimble hands wrapped around the firmness of his cock, and he groaned out Sherlock's name, his fingers grasping the silken fabric that stretched, taut, over his lover's back. Amber eyes met cold steel, and he let his eyelids flutter shut for a brief moment as the sensations coursed through him. His legs fell apart further, and his cheeks flooded with color. He was too easy. Too easy for Sherlock.

Sherlock loved seeing his brave soldier so wholly undone before him, spread out like an offering. He knew that no one else had seen John like this before - it was all for him. He heard John moan his name, felt his nails dig into his back, smelled the sweetness of the frosting mixed with the musky scent of John. All of Sherlock's senses were completely taken over by John, captured by John. In one swift movement he stripped the smaller man of his pants, pulling down the man's briefs as well.

"Oh, hell," John choked out, the cool of the flat rushing in on his bare skin. Once more, his eyes drifted to the sofa, the comfort of the cushions, the warmth. Beneath him, the linoleum floor was frigid on his flesh. He panted, staring down at his own jutting erection, and back up at Sherlock's pale face. It was frozen in wonder and delight, an evil smile spread wide across his finely sculpted features. "Well?" John rasped out, irritably.

Sherlock glanced to the sofa where John was looking. He knew what John wanted but he also knew his limitations. Could he stop long enough to get to that damn piece of furniture? 'What would you like, John?' Sherlock asked, an evil smile settling on his pale face. He let go of John's cock and the smile grew as he heard the desperate whine that escaped the other man's lips. 'What does Doctor Watson want most right now?' Two fingers walked up John's stomach, underneath the jumper, touching his warm skin.

John glared at him, unable to prevent the shudder at the touch of those fingers against his stomach and chest, and he licked his dry lips. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to be bent over the back of the sofa being pistoned by Sherlock's substantial endowment, and he wanted it five minutes ago. He resisted though. He didn't know why he resisted. It always ended the same. Perhaps that was why they played the game. Because it brought a gleam to Sherlock's eye, and it made John tremble with need. "I want you to stop teasing me," he growled, bucking his hips up.

Sherlock gasped at the sudden contact, he knew that he had barely any control left; he knew how capable John was at breaking down his barriers. He hoped John didn't know, couldn't see the effect he had on Sherlock. With a groan he launched himself up, pulling John with him, giving him a deep, hungry kiss as they pivoted around. 'Come along, John.' he breathed into John's mouth. Frantically pushing the smaller man along, pulling the blue jumper from those gorgeous shoulders, yanking the shirt underneath from its resting place, freeing John's chest.

John struggled and fought with the jumper and shirt, as eager to be shot of them as Sherlock was. He tried to turn and speak to the tall man, but Sherlock gave him another shove, and his heart began to pound in his chest. He loved it when he was forceful. He was a bad man, oh yes, a very bad man that loved to be shoved about and ordered around and pushed down on the nearest flat surface and fucked, good and hard. He was trembling, and the most embarrassing noises were escaping his throat.

Oh God, John was making those sounds again. Sherlock loved those scared, aroused little noises. Sherlock needed John. Badly. He shoved John down onto the couch, trying not to hurt him too much, even though he knew John wouldn't mind a little bruise or two. Sherlock stood above the other man for one glorious moment, devouring the sight of John kneeling on the floor, face down on the sofa, legs apart, waiting to be taken by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Oh yes, this was Sherlock's favourite part. The part where John, completely naked, submitted the most intimate part of him to the Consulting Detective.

John was panting in the sofa cushion, and it smelled of Sherlock. He moaned. He knew he was bright red, and he knew he should be completely humiliated right now. Sherlock was standing behind him, fully clothed and completely dignified, and John was kneeling on the ground, naked, legs spread, helpless, with icing in his hair. He should be angry. He was not. John was desperately turned on. He wiggled his ass impatiently, muttering, his voice muffled by the sofa. His toes curled. His cock ached. Why the hell wasn't Sherlock DOING anything?

Sherlock smirked, he could see how impatient John was; see how much he wanted it. Oh, should I be nice? Sherlock mused. When had being nice ever helped? He descended on John, putting an arm around the man's waist, wrapping his hand around the throbbing erection. His other hand came up to John's mouth and he pushed two fingers inside. 'Suck.' he intoned, leaning his head down and biting the tanned flesh of John's exposed neck.

John opened his mouth, (far too obedient, his mind called), and his tongue wrapped around Sherlock's long, deft fingers hungrily. They tasted…delicious. Like chemicals, icing, gunpowder, and soap. He began to suck vigorously, rocking into Sherlock's grip, nudging his buttocks back against those hip bones. He could feel Sherlock's arousal, straining through his neat trousers, and John whined.

He wondered how long Sherlock would tease him. The last time, he'd nearly had John sobbing and begging before he gave him what he wanted; no, what he needed. God knows this wasn't what John WANTED. He WANTED to be normal. He wanted to not be so fucking turned on by the teeth sinking into the skin of his neck. But he wasn't normal, and he was turned on. So he let out a strangled cry and let himself fall into those arms.

Sherlock lifted his head and smiled at the angry red mark on John's neck. It was his brand, to show to the world that this man was the property of Sherlock Holmes. 'Tell me, John. What do you want?' he removed his wet fingers from John's mouth and slid them down until his the middle finger rested on the rosy pucker, pushing ever so lightly on it, just to make sure John felt it. 'What,' he gave John another love bite, 'do,' and another 'you,' one more 'want?'

With each bite, John yelped and moaned, and by the last word, he was shaking from head to toe, his entrance flexing and contracting at the nudge of Sherlock's wet finger. "Fuck," he groaned into the sofa, his hands grasping at the union jack pillow, bringing it to his mouth. He bit down hard, struggling not to shout. The last time, they'd woken Mrs. Hudson in the middle of the night, and had been forced to try and convince her they were being attacked. Well. That was partly true. "FUCK," he muttered again, louder this time.

'John, John, John,' Sherlock murmured in mock exasperation. 'Who said you were allowed to have that?' He snatched the pillow away from John's face, enjoying the fiery red colour his skin turned, ignoring the protests. 'You'll just have to be *very* quiet.' he breathed into John's ear. 'Now John, I believe you haven't answered my question. What. Do. You. Want?' He pressed on his middle finger a little harder, causing the tip to sink in. He heard the intake of John's breath, felt the body underneath him turn stiff, felt the erection he had been distractedly stroking come to full attention. Sherlock knew what John wanted, he knew what John needed, but knowledge was power, and there was no way Sherlock was going to let this power go to waste. Not. One. Chance.

John squirmed and stiffened as that fingertip inched inside, and he bit his lip, hard, to keep quiet. He wanted his pillow back. He needed something to cry into when that gorgeous cock came for him, as he knew it would. He felt unreasonably angry that Sherlock was going to make him say it when he knew damned well what John wanted. This struggle, this constant battle, it was all ego for him. John knew he shouldn't feed his ego. Then the finger crooked inside of him, and he fell apart. "Fuck me," he whispered, barely there. He had barely any breath left. _Please, don't make me say it again_; he thought feverishly, his skin beginning to develop a thin sheen.

Sherlock had won, oh yes, like always. Those two words, the white flag. 'What was that? You should learn to articulate better, John.' Sherlock liked hearing John admit defeat, it was something that got his blood pumping, it was far better than a murder, far better than a puzzle, it was the best game of all. Slowly he pulled his middle finger out for a fraction of a second before pushing it in again, bit by bit, all the while petting John's cock, bringing him closer to completion.

John did cry out then, the rush of Sherlock's long finger shoving back inside too much, too much for him. He hated him, oh, yes, and he loved him, and he wanted him. "Damn you," he gasped, his head falling back onto Sherlock's shoulder, his thighs spreading as far as he could manage. "Fuck me!" and his voice had risen several octaves, loud and shrill. That deep throatiness was gone, leaving only desperation behind. He wanted Sherlock inside of him, and more than just a finger. He needed it, and so he did the one thing that he knew his lover could not resist. Never. He turned his face, just enough to catch those silver eyes, and he let his mouth fall open wantonly. "Please," he whispered.

Sherlock's breathing became erratic, his mind completely lust filled as he heard that word drop from those perfect red lips. 'Oh God,' he moaned and slid another finger inside John, preparing him as much as possible, scissoring the two fingers several times before he was satisfied. Hurriedly he removed the fingers, ignoring John's whine as he un-did his own trousers, pulling them down to reveal his own weeping cock, long and painfully hard. With one smooth thrust he penetrated John, groaning with pleasure from the warm, tight insides. 'Fuck, John,' he could no longer form a complete sentence. 'Perfect.'

John held perfectly still for a moment as he felt the heat of Sherlock's cock push into him, seating fully, his hip bones resting against John's firm cheeks. They gasped together, the air in the room suddenly far too dry and hot, and John felt the pain and pleasure bleed together, rolling over him in waves. He swore again under his breath, and began to slowly ride forwards and back. It was the signal that yes, he was all right, and yes, Sherlock could fuck him hard now, if you please. John thrashed a little as he felt strong hands grip his waist, and he steeled himself. Here it comes.

"Do it," he grated out. "Now."

As soon as John gave him the okay, with that guttural tone, Sherlock pulled back and thrust again with reckless abandon, not caring that he wasn't being cool, not caring about the loud moans, whines, and whimpers escaping his lips, not giving a flying fuck who heard them. The time for control had passed; he couldn't have stopped even had he wanted to. Thrusting into John again and again, filling that dirty little hole up with his penis, each time coming closer to the climax, each time feeling the pleasure coil up further inside his stomach, trying to burst its way out of him.

'Oh GOD, JOHN.' he screamed, desperately pumping John's cock as well, wanting it to be perfect.

John couldn't form words. John couldn't form thoughts. John only could cry out, making a very half arsed effort to muffle his shouts in the cushions. It wasn't very effective. It mattered little anyway when Sherlock was plowing him, shouting as he did so, and John gave up. His voice was hoarse. "SHERLOCK!" His ass rose to meet each thrust, his cock was dripping between his legs, and he felt tears pricking his eyes. He was close, he was close. The pleasure was thundering through him, madly, swiftly, and he just needed... needed that little bit..._Sherlock, push me over... bite me.. split me open... take me._

Sherlock knew all of John signals, he knew just what John needed, he knew how close John was. His thrusts became harder, he traced his thumb across the head of John's glistening cock, leaning forward he breathed in the scent of John, the glorious sweet smelling scent that exuded from him. 'Oh John, Christ, John,' he garbled, biting John's ear, licking the lobe. He knew what John needed, just three words and one final act, one small token of kindness. The hand that wasn't occupied with John's cock lifted from its place on the smaller man's hip. Grasping onto John's chin he moved his head until their lips met in a deep kiss, his tongue clashed with John's overwhelming it, his teeth gnashing John's tongue, tasting a slight metallic flavour. 'Oh God, I love you, John.' He moaned into the man's mouth, just as he gave one final mighty thrust of his hips. He felt himself release into John, over and over. Felt John cum into his hand.

'I love you, John.' he whispered over and over again. It was true, he loved that man more than he had ever thought capable. John was his.

John shuddered violently as he felt Sherlock empty into him, and he jolted, his orgasm overtaking him, blasting through his senses, and he devoured that full, soft mouth, biting it, tasting the metallic flavor of his Sherlock. That taste filled his heart, his soul, his body, until he slumped against the sofa, sobbing. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, I love you," he repeated, over and over. He was limp, and he would be sore, but right now... he felt marvellous.

Sherlock looked pulled out of his beloved John and looked down at the man's back tenderly. There were so many emotions he could not express, did not know how to express. So many things he felt for that man, so many wonderful things. 'Shall we...take a bath?' he asked tentatively, a little overwhelmed, still riding on the last highs of the orgasm.

John waited for a moment, feeling the burn of Sherlock's eyes on his back. He knew that expression without looking. Now that his tall lover had satisfied his primal urges on John's poor, all-too-willing body, Sherlock would be gentle, contrite, almost apologetic. And John would spend the next hour reassuring him that no, he wasn't hurt, yes, he had enjoyed it, no, he wasn't made of crystal.

John sat for a moment, considering the bath. Then the silence was shattered by a ring on the bell. He whipped his head around. One ring, urgent. Two. He blinked up at Sherlock. "Client?"

Sherlock frowned. 'Damn, client.'

John stood swiftly, and for a second, he stared deeply into those eyes. Those bottomless, unnatural, alien eyes. He loved those eyes. There was a moment of tension. His muscles coiled. He could feel Sherlock's sperm dribbling down his leg. He was sweaty. So was Sherlock. There was a client downstairs. Mrs Hudson was answering the door. And... there was only one bathroom. Two pairs of eyes flicked to the hall. John sprang. He shoved Sherlock aside, scrambling for the loo, laughing maniacally.

Sherlock jostled John, trying to scurry for the bathroom door while pulling up his trousers, giggles leaping forth from the pit of his stomach, a giddy sensation in his head. Life with John was never dull. Slowing down for a half a second he allowed John to get in the lead, running to the loo as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him. John reached the door first and with a triumphant 'AHA!' leapt in the room, almost closing the door when Sherlock's hand got in the way and he muscled himself in. Sherlock looked down into John's beautiful eyes for a moment then gave him one final loving kiss, trying to express all those things that words could not. He knew John would understand, John always did.

John froze as Sherlock dragged him in for a kiss. His cheeks flushed bright pink, and he found his heart palpitating. The kiss was sweet and lasting, and as Sherlock pulled away, a fire in his eyes, John swallowed hard. Sherlock turned to go greet his client, willing to endure the stickiness in favor of John's comfort, and the prospect of a case. But John caught his hand. "Sherlock."

He turned back to look at his doctor, and John rubbed his thumb over that beloved hand. He felt inexplicably shy. "H..Happy birthday."

A flush rose from Sherlock's neck to his cheek, his eyes glittered with pure happiness, a rare, honest-to-God pure smile spread across his mouth. 'Thank you, John.' With that he turned on his heel and practically ran to the front room, bouncing on the balls of his feet with every leap.

John waited until he heard his lover's booming voice greeting the prospective client, managing to insult him as innocently as possible within the first few seconds of his arrival. He smiled softly to himself, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He was covered in bites. Sherlock's bites. He strained to hear the detective, and could tell by his rumbling tone that the game was on.

John Watson took a deep breath, knowing that his services would be needed soon. He smiled again, his blood pumping, heart beating, mind racing, and he shut the door.


End file.
